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Tuesday, January 3, 2012

From the Girl That Writes to the Boy That Reads

((This essay is a tribute to this lovely prose. I decided to save it for today.))
Sometimes I wonder if you understand the world I see. I imagine things so quickly and with such ferocity that I don't think you understand that each story for me is a high. It's like being filled with saidar or letting the song of a faraway civilization guide my will into a magical force that can end the world--or spawn them. It's the flow of inspiration that enters the mouths of boys training to be bards--with a stone on their bellies and blindfold-covered eyes. It's the ambrosia of the gods, the blessing light of the Divine and the lure of the power offered by the Dark One present in so many fantasies.

I used to create world after world, read book after book, and play games--old, cheap PC games that my family would let me play, all because I wanted to get away. I wanted to escape a world where the glares always held malice, where the smiles hid knives, and faces held hidden anger that would lash out at you, bruise you, beat you to the ground until you thought you were going to pass out. I hated the world of fluorescent lighting, fireworks that made sounds so dissonant and loud that the pain felt like a gunshot echoing into my brain. I couldn't hide my flabby rolls or my acne, and this was when kids are supposed to be warm in their tree forts, hanging from branches, and playing tag. Worse, I couldn't hide that I didn't understand. I didn't understand why children needed to play out the stories of their parents, or why they had to be so cruel to each other. I couldn't ever feel what my face was saying, and when it became obvious that I was the token retarded child, I ran away. I dove into the other worlds, where I could speak from the lips of queens, destroy my enemies and fears through swords, axes, bows, magic, and condemnations, and roar in the flames of dragons.

Yes, I love being busy with building and exploring these worlds. I love the worlds that you give me, too. I go in and harvest the thoughts, the feelings, the descriptions, the magic, and the souls that I find there. Don't worry, you know that I take good care of all of them and give them right back if I can't give them the home they deserve. I tried to run away from Earth, but she's the one that gives me everything to write with. She gave me my life, and she gave me you. I don't mean to offend you or your ideals of God, but if He did place us here, He did it through the grandiose weft and weave of life around us. Thankfully, both are so giving that they allow me to be with you, even with all of these visions leaking out into the world through me.

I love that you know the worlds that I escaped to better than I do. It's a huge compliment that you want to know the worlds that I'm building better than I do--reading them despite all of the drafts I give you. Thank you for breathing in the breaths I expel from my mind--the wind of other places that will always exist--across the universe and across the dimensions of one zany girl's thoughts.

Writing is my sobering wine and tintillating provender, my bolstering lavender and a scintillating brine. It brings my mind to strong, vivacious clarity, makes my stomach churn for better material to mentally chew over, takes my nose to lands forgotten, and the brine? It's for pickling dark days into a fantastic pickle that my characters can get themselves out of.

Thank you for delving into my work, because I'm not running away anymore. You've given me the fey bridge between the worlds that I needed to stay here, and I can see the world just as I need to, through honest eyes. I can always run if I need to, but I don't think I'll have to--thanks to you.